Lorelle:Try as she might, Michelle just couldn't get Steadman out of her mind. She thought of what his throbbing manhood must look like as she aggressively sucked down a huge corn dog for dinner that night...

luck was on her side. marcus was at the gym again. it's funny, she thought - he goes to the gym for hours a day yet he remains chubby and weak-limbed. what could he be doing there all this time? no matter; he was gone, and she was alone with steadman and his christ-like chiseled body.

Michelle looked down at his turgid member, "I want you inside me." she softly moaned. "I want you inside me now!" She grabbed at his shirt. He pulls back, making her urges even stronger. "I WANT YOU!", she screamed. "GIVE ME IT NOW!" She lunged at him for a passionate embrace. He pulls away yet again, "Mrs. Bachmann, I won't tell you again!", he pleads, "You have to pay the kid at the other window before I can give you another corndog!"

Wisps of white steam wafted off of Steadman's member, a hot corn dog in the middle of the frozen wilderness. It did not belong there. She, the prim and proper Ms. Powers, did not belong there either. And yet, there she was.

Just as he was ready to descend upon her sweet, tender flower, to warm her shivering body from within, he noticed it.

She had sharp knees.

His manhood sagged a little at the realization. He stood and he reclothed himself, even as she gasped in anticipation. "I'm sorry, Ms. Powers," he said, his voice deep and throaty. "This will have to... wait." And then he walked away.

KangTheMad:Marcus looked at Michelle's naked body, his mountain standing tall, a throbbing monument to his desire. "Babe, crushing the dreams of those socialist union workers has given me such an urge for you."

Michelle felt the heat grow between her legs and she parted them. "Take me, Marcus, take me in the biblical way!"

Marcus approached her, his flagstaff moving in rhythm. "You will speak when I tell you to," he said, bringing the whip down upon her hard, eliciting an aroused whimper from Michelle.

Sighs...ah youth. Many a time i went out with friends to a bar, and ended up balls deep in some gigantic fatty, stirring her innards with my meaty baton of love. Not bad, kinda like sticking it in a rubber boot filled with warm mayo.

Rand Paul awoke to find himself bound tightly to a hard wooden chair. The room was empty except for a glaring incandescent light bulb and something in the corner that looked disturbingly like chains. The bare concrete walls reflected sound and light back on him, resulting in a senses-destroying cacophony. Through the blinding light, he could make out the frame of a large steel door.

My god, he thought to himself, Obama has finally done it. He's rounding up his enemies. The Tea Party rally had all been a ruse to draw out the Kenyan usurper's enemies. From somewhere beyond the rusted steel door, Rand heard the click-clack of FEMA jackboots against the concrete floor, coming closer and closer. Rand struggled to free himself from the bindings, but whoever had tied him to this chair knew what they were doing. The clinking of tumblers falling into place echoed in the stale air. With a screech of rusted metal against metal, the door opened slowly inward. Through clenched eyes, Rand could just barely make out a human form standing in the doorway.

From somewhere deep inside his soul, a primal scream of rage erupted. "You bastards!" he screamed. "You'll never get away with this! We're Americans and we will never surrend-"

"Oh Rand, do shut up."

The sultry female voice stunned Rand into a momentary silence as the outline of a svelte female form emerged into the light. Michelle Bachman was 120 lbs of sex poured into a 90 lb black leather stiletto-heeled bag. Rand gasped as she slowly walked towards him, her hips rhythmically swaying like the foam-flecked waves of the ocean crashing against the beach. Her lips were painted the shade of deep red that was only possible from dyes that had long since been banned by government regulators. Her perfume reeked of sex and liberty and something dangerous... freedom. From behind her came the soft sound of rawhide gently slapping against exposed flesh. His senses overwhelmed, Rand felt the stirring in his loins that he had only ever felt while reading The Fountainhead.

"M-Michelle? What's going on? I thought Obama had launched his coup?"

"He has," Bachman's sultry lips pursed in disdain. "Fox News is gone. His gay legions have seized control of the military. Even now his IRS goon squad is fanning out across the country, auditing anyone who tries to stand up to him."

Rand couldn't believe it. How had Obama managed to strike so suddenly? "Michelle, we have to do something! Call the NRA! It's time for second-amendment solutions!"

"Oh Rand, do you think the Kenyan didn't anticipate that? Al Qeida destroyed NRA headquarters two hours ago." Bachman slithered into a nearby chair and casually flicked a speck of dust from her leather thigh-highs with her riding crop. "Wayne LaPierre was a firebrand, but never a leader. Our training sessions together were... intense, but he always came up... short."

"We have to do something Michelle! Untie me and we'll rally the Tea Party and-"

Bachman let out a decisive snort that sent shockwaves through Rand's baking loins. "The Tea Party is full of children. They're nothing on their own. They need a leader, a warrior-prince. I thought your father could be that man, but he's too... soft." Bachman's lips curled into a devious smile. Her eyes bore into Rand's soul like a missile-defense system's laser beams. The sweat was pouring down his back now as his manhood pressed painfully against the zipper of his pants. "What do you say Rand?" Bachman purred. "Are you more of a man than your father?"

Rand's vision had gone red with desire. The taunts from the objectivist vixen punctured his defenses as if they were even their. Driven by rage and lust, Rand Paul screamed out, "Yes! Yes, I will be your warrior! Tell me what I need to do!"

"Well, my little John Galt," Bachman said as she slinked out of her chair. "Before you can lead our armies, you have to be trained." Rand let out a gasp as a six inch stiletto heel planted itself firmly in his privately-owned baby factory. "There's no more time for tea at this party, only S-" Rand Paul's vision went white as the rising crop smacked against his face, "-and M."